Invictus
by englishtutor
Summary: In which Mary is taken hostage and John and Sherlock pursue her captors. Spoilers, I assume, for Series Three. Warning: this is a rather darker tale than those I have written previously. Death of a character.
1. Chapter 1

The taxi was already speeding on its way when John's mobile signaled an incoming call.

"Greg?" John's voice sounded wary.

Sherlock's sharp ears picked up the voice of Lestrade, uncharacteristically hoarse and anxious. "John, I need you to come to Mary's clinic. Now."

"I'm actually on my way there. She sent me a text. We thought they might be involved in a robbery?" John replied, his own tone deep with concern.

"Yeah, well, it's gone beyond simple robbery, John. The perpetrator has left the scene in a stolen vehicle. And he has a hostage." Lestrade's anger was palpable, resonating through the taxi like a sudden thunderclap. Sherlock felt a surge of dread rush through him.

"Mary?" John whispered, almost too horrified to speak.

"She was still completely unhurt when he took her," Lestrade assured him, but John did not look assured. "We have officers following at a distance. He'll let her go. We'll find her. It'll be okay, John." The shaking of Lestrade's voice belied the encouragement of his words.

Sherlock sat, stunned, watching his friend holding the now silent phone to his ear, forgotten. John was staring without seeing out the windscreen of the taxi, breathing hard as if he'd just run a marathon. He longed to say something comforting to John, but he was himself feeling as if all the air had gone out of the world; he had no ability to speak.

Suddenly he mobilized himself to action. He snatched up his own mobile and called an all-to-familiar number. "Mycroft," he snapped, when his brother answered. "Mary's clinic. A robber has taken her hostage. NSY is following, but you need to take care of this. It's MARY!"

Mycroft did not hesitate. "I'll get my best people on it," he agreed immediately, as Sherlock had known he would. Mycroft had been as impressed with Mary as Sherlock was. Mary was _family._

The taxi pulled up to the clinic, now barricaded as a crime scene, and John flew out almost before the vehicle could roll to a stop. Sherlock followed a mere step behind. Doctors, nurses, and various patients stood about on the pavement or slumped in chairs just inside the building, some shell-shocked and silent, some weeping uncontrollably. Lestrade was at the door to meet them, his eyes filled with concern and a carefully controlled fury, and he ushered them inside.

"He was after drugs, of course," he began with preamble. "When he got what he wanted, he grabbed a kid for a hostage—put a gun to a child's head. Mary begged him to take her instead." Lestrade glared around at the other robbery victims with little sympathy. "She was apparently the only one who spoke up. We arrived on the scene just moments after he left with her. He had the car and driver waiting. We had our best people following the car, but they didn't dare approach openly, in case he spotted them. And, just as you pulled up, I got the report: we lost them."

John went white. Sherlock felt staggered, but put his hand on his friend's shoulder supportively. "Mycroft's people will find her, John," he said with more confidence than he felt. He wondered at the fear that gripped him. He wondered how John was still standing. He wondered at the gnawing feeling his stomach, a dread he'd really never experienced before.

One of the doctors chose that moment to speak up. "You're her husband, aren't you? Dr. Watson's husband?"

John turned towards him slowly. Sherlock saw the look on his friend's face and wondered if he should warn this colleague of Mary's. He decided not to.

The doctor babbled on. "You should be proud of your wife. That was the most incredible display of bravery I've ever. . . ."

And then he was out cold on the floor.

John rubbed his fist grimly and glared around at the rest of the staff, infuriated. "You let her go, without a word! Not one of you could stand up for her? Not one of you had the guts she did, to stand up for a child? She's worked here with you for how long, and you could let her stand up to a madman, alone?" Sherlock had never seen John look as dangerous as he did at that moment. He wondered if he should try to stop John, should his friend decide to go on hitting these cowardly, useless people. Or if he should join him. He was feeling as dangerous as John looked.

Lestrade put a restraining hand on John's shoulder. "Come on, mate, let's go outside, shall we?" he carefully propelled the enraged soldier towards the door. Sherlock followed protectively behind. His mind was whirling, desperate to come up with an idea that would help. He was unaccustomed to feeling so utterly useless.

John strode away from the crowd and stood a little distance away, his head up and alert, his feet wide apart. He was ready for action, if only a course of action would present itself to him. Lestrade turned to Sherlock.

"He took her switchblade. The one you gave her. She's unarmed." He scrubbed his face with his hand wearily. "You were already on your way here?"

"Mary had sent John a text. It just said, 'Love you, John.' We knew something terrible was happening and came at once. We thought a robbery was the most likely scenario."

Lestrade shook his head. "Obviously, she didn't have the time to send a more detailed message. But, how did you know something terrible was happening from a text like that?"

Sherlock looked perplexed at Lestrade's ignorance. "Mary never calls John 'John', unless she's upset."

Lestrade kept careful watch over John as he nodded, enlightened. "She calls him 'Captain', doesn't she? I always wondered about that."

"It's from a poem she likes. 'Invictus', by Henley. She changed the words to it, to suit herself, she told me once, although she didn't specify in what way. I looked it up. I can guess at what she changed. Very sentimental."

Lestrade's radio broke the silence that followed, and he exploded into action once more, shouting orders into the radio and to the officers that remained on the scene, ordering John and Sherlock to stay put, then leaping into his own vehicle and speeding away.

Before they even had a chance to express their anger at being left in the dark, Sherlock's phone signaled an incoming text. It was from Mycroft, and it was simply an address.

"John!" he called, adrenalin once again surging, "Mycroft's found her. Let's go!"

They had wisely kept their taxi waiting and were on their way in seconds. Sherlock watched friend closely, wishing he knew the proper things to say in such a situation. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Always before in a crisis, there had been _something_ he could do. John, his face closed and stoic, did not say a word.

The taxi stopped at the barrier the police had set up across the street. A crumpled car rested against the wall of one of the buildings by the entrance to an alley. Police cars and an ambulance were parked with no apparent rhyme or reason. A knot of officers milled in and around the alley entrance, Lestrade among them. And just as they arrived, another vehicle pulled up behind them—a coroner's wagon. Sherlock's heart stopped. He had never felt such terror in his life. He had no idea what to do as they burst out of the taxi together.

"No, no, no, no!" John cried out, running. He and Sherlock raced side by side to the entrance to the alley, only to be pulled up short by Lestrade.

"Hold on, mate," he said to John, his voice filled with compassion. "You don't want to. . . ."

Sherlock paused only long enough to check if Lestrade were still conscious, then sprinted after his determined comrade. John slid to a stop and dropped to his knees by a pile of shredded, blood-stained clothing beside the crashed car. Sherlock slowed and approached, dread chilling him.

It was Mary. Her face was just recognizable. The bullet had entered her temple at point-blank range and exited in the back, taking most of her skull with it. John crouched by her, his trembling hands hovering, afraid to touch, unable not to try. Sherlock leaned over from behind his friend and gently reached down to close her staring, lifeless eyes with one hand.

John took Mary's hands in his and just knelt there, holding them. Sherlock noted the jagged, bloody nails and abrasions on her hands. She had not gone quietly. Mary had fought to the last. He tried to take comfort in that knowledge. His thoughts went fondly to how formidable Mary could be, in spite of her small stature and petite build. He had more than once been silenced by her eloquent right index finger. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it; and yet was so compassionate and selfless that what she wanted was always to the good of those around her. Now he could hardly reconcile that strong, fearless young woman with this shattered, childlike wisp of fragility on the ground before him. Grief swept through him; an overwhelming sense of loss. He looked at John, dry-eyed and grim, keeping vigil over his wife of only five years, silent as the grave. How he was still upright, Sherlock could not fathom.

Suddenly, Anderson was there. He looked more sympathetic and uncertain than Sherlock had ever seen him. "I'm sorry, John. We need to secure the scene. I need you to move aside now," he said quietly. John did not seem to hear. Anderson touched John's shoulder; suddenly the ex-soldier exploded to his feet, and it was all Sherlock could do to hold his friend back.

"It's all right, John; he's just doing his job," he murmured in what he hoped was a soothing tone, although his first instinct was the same as his friend's: to stop anyone else touching Mary.

Lestrade appeared and intervened. "I'd let John do what he wants, Anderson," he advised wryly, rubbing his swollen jaw, "if you value your looks at all."

Anderson looked from his boss to John and nodded. "We'll work around you," he said at last. Sherlock was relieved that Anderson was actually not being a complete idiot today. If he had said anything about John contaminating the evidence, Sherlock would have punched the man himself. As if evidence of John's presence in her life wouldn't already be all over Mary.

John sank back to his knees and took his wife's hands again. His head was bowed, his eyes were closed. He became still and lifeless as a monument. Sherlock stood at his friend's back protectively, daring anyone else to disturb them. Lestrade's lot worked respectfully around them.

After a few minutes, Sherlock turned his attention to the rest of the crime scene. There was a medical team working on a bleeding man on the ground beside the car. The blade on the ground nearby was intimately familiar to him—the Italian stiletto switchblade he had given to Mary four years ago. He smiled grimly. He could see what had happened now as clearly as if he'd been present.

Lestrade stood beside Sherlock, shaking his head sadly. "She almost got away, didn't she? If the car hadn't crashed, she might have made it."

Sherlock agreed. "Mary and her captor were in the backseat. She waited until the getaway car was in a less populated area, wanting to minimize the chances of anyone else being harmed, and then lunged for the handgun. She would have known that her captors did not intend to let her go; she would have taken her chances and fought rather than meekly submit to her own murder." Sherlock walked closer to see the inside of the car. "She and her captor grappled for the gun; the driver, either trying to help his partner or merely distracted, crashed the car into the building. The impact caused them both to lose their grip on the weapon. The crack in the windshield is from an impact on the inside: the gun flew out of their hands and smashed into it. The blood smears on the steering wheel: the driver hit his head on impact, stunning him but not causing him to lose consciousness. The scuffs on the upholstery: Mary's assailant dove over the seat to retrieve his weapon. Mary must have seen where he'd put her knife. She picked his pocket and stabbed him in the shoulder, incapacitating him, making him drop the gun again. Meanwhile, the driver recovered his senses, snatched up the gun and jumped out of the car. He physically dragged her out of the backseat, leaving his friend to slowly bleed out from his knife wound."

"He's passed out due to blood loss, but he'll live to stand trial, they tell me," Lestrade told him. "Looks like the driver tried to . . . ." He grimly turned to look at Mary's body, her torn clothing telling the tale.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted, not wanting to hear the words. "You'll be looking for a man with deep scratches on his face and hands and a number of bruises. She wouldn't stop fighting him, so he. . . ." His voice trailed off, his eyes on John's back, wondering how much information his friend was taking in.

"We don't have any CCTV of the driver. And it's a rabbit warren in this area; all these council flats. It'll take us days to search them all. I'm afraid it's fairly hopeless, unless we have his fingerprints on file with a current address, and he's stupid enough to go home," Lestrade continued.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Mycroft's people are on it. We'll find him."

Anderson approached them now, nervously. "Uh, sir. We need to . . . transport the body now. Can you . . . ?"

Lestrade shook his head firmly. "I've had my turn," he said ruthlessly, rubbing his jaw again. "Do your job, Anderson, and take the consequences."

Anderson hesitated, and Sherlock found himself sympathizing with the man against his will. Having been on the receiving end of one of John's right hooks himself, he couldn't blame anyone for wishing to avoid incurring his friend's wrath. "I'll take care of him," he stepped in, and Anderson gave him a rare look of gratitude.

Not wishing to startle John into sudden action, Sherlock stepped around Mary's body so that the vigilant soldier could see him. "John," he said gently, "they have to take her away now." John seemed not to hear. Sherlock crouched down to eye-level with his friend. "John," he coaxed, "look at me."

Slowly, John's head swiveled up and their eyes met. The depth of pain in John's strained face took Sherlock's breath away for a moment. He regulated his breathing and tried again. "They have to take her away now, John. We need to go."

John looked like a man waking from a nightmare. He didn't move for a long moment. Then he gave a tiny nod and rose to his feet. He took two steps back and straightened himself to his full height, taking refuge in his military training, keeping in perfect control of himself. Sherlock's heart ached for him, almost wishing the man would break down and weep instead of being so impossibly brave. He stepped to John's side and the two watched as Mary's body was zipped gently into a body bag and placed on a stretcher. Only then did John turn to Sherlock, and now his eyes blazed.

"Find him," he grated out between clenched teeth. "Sherlock, find him. Find. Him."

"Mycroft's got his best people on it," Sherlock assured him.

John shook his head. "You have resources Mycroft has no access to. Find him, Sherlock. For Mary."

Sherlock nodded. John was right. His homeless network had a better chance of finding this man than all of Mycroft's fancy technology had. He turned to Lestrade, who had remained standing near.

"Yeah, I'll take him home. You do what you have to do to get this guy. And my people will be looking as well, of course," Lestrade said without being asked. "Try to take him alive, Sherlock," he added. "Although I can't say I'll be looking into it with any great scrutiny."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched in a grim smile and nodded his appreciation. "Not home. Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson."

"Right. Come on, mate. We'll go get some tea, shall we?" Lestrade led John gently away.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock spent the next few hours in the taxi, traveling to various points of the city, spreading pound notes amongst the homeless network with the assurance that a substantial award would be given to whomever could find the killer of his best friend's wife. No. The killer of his friend.

Sherlock was a man of habit. When John met Mary, he'd had to change some of his habits. But now, for the past five years, Mary had been a large part of his life. She helped him with experiments. She cleaned his flat and made sure he ate. She never tried to stop John from going with him on a case, even if that case took them out of the city for lengthy periods of time; in fact, she was the duo's biggest fan, encouraging them to greater achievements. She herself had even worked on cases with him occasionally, and had proven herself to be as able as her husband. She listened. She cared. Sherlock was important to her, and that was so rare in his life. Her absence felt . . . wrong.

He worried about John. John adored his Mary. How would he cope with such an enormous loss? How could Sherlock help? Or could he do anything to help at all? Because strangely enough, he want very much to help. And he hated feeling so out of control of events.

When he returned to his flat, he was almost afraid to enter it; afraid of what he would see; afraid he would not know how to act. He felt at such a loss. He had no idea what he was meant to do. Mary would know. She always helped him through these human things. She nudged him when he should be quiet. She whispered the right words for him to say. She reinterpreted his comments for people when he said things wrong. She always knew what to do when dealing with people, and how to gently steer him in the right direction when navigating the minefields of everyday conversation and human interaction. What would she have him say to John on this day? What would she want him to do?

John was sitting in his old armchair; Mrs. Hudson was sitting nervously on the sofa, her face red with weeping, the tears still falling silently, her worried eyes on him. John's feet were bare, his tea was sitting untasted by his side. His head was back and he was staring at the ceiling, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles were white.

"He hasn't spoken a word or moved at all since he got here," Mrs. Hudson whispered, her voice filled with concern. "He's in shock, poor love."

Sherlock moved towards the chair and looked down into John's eyes. No. John was not in shock; he was trembling with carefully controlled fury. Sherlock had never seen his friend this enraged.

"It's done, John," Sherlock said quietly. "We'll hear something soon."

John nodded curtly. It was the only indication that he was cognizant of his surroundings. It was obvious to Sherlock that it was taking all of John's energy and concentration to keep from exploding. Sherlock would almost prefer the explosion to this electrified silence. Almost. He remembered Lestrade's swollen jaw and wondered what would be worse.

Mrs. Hudson had taken Sherlock's arrival as a welcome opportunity to do something useful. She put the kettle on for more tea and began to cut sandwiches. "You boys needs to eat," she fussed as she worked. They ignored her, politely.

John took a long, shaky breath and spoke at last without turning his eyes from the ceiling. "I heard what you and Greg were saying. About what happened." His voice sounded utterly lifeless.

Sherlock nodded, although John could not see him.

"I want to blame him, and all Scotland Yard, for not getting to the scene on time," John said emotionlessly, still looking up. "I want to blame Mycroft for not finding her until it was too late. I want to blame those idiots at the clinic for not being killed instead of her. I want to blame myself. I want to blame you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but could almost feel Mary's elbow nudging him to keep silence. How many hundreds of times had she done that in the past five years? If Mary were here, she would tell him to just let John talk, wouldn't she? She'd tell him to let John get all his feelings out before responding. "Just nod, Sweetheart," he could hear her say in her quiet way. "Quietly."

John's mouth set in a firm line. He tipped his head down and looked at Sherlock for the first time. "I want to blame _her_, God help me, for being brave and selfless and good. If she'd just kept quiet, not put herself forward, let them take someone else. . . ." He stopped and looked back up at the ceiling, struggling with his self-control. "That wouldn't have been our Mary, though, would it? She was always about helping people. She lived to help people." His voice trembled, betraying him at last.

Sherlock nodded. "She was a remarkable woman," he murmured gently. He meant so much more than that.

John clenched his fist and beat the arm of his chair, his face contorting with pain. It took him several minutes to regain his composure. Finally he said in a low voice, "It's no one's fault but the two who did the crime, is it? I can't place blame on anyone else. Everyone did what they could, didn't they?" John looked at Sherlock again, pleadingly. "Didn't we? Didn't we do all we could? Is there something we could have done differently, to stop this from happening? To keep her safe?"

Dozens of scenarios flooded Sherlock's brain in which Mary ended up being safe. None of them would help John get past this moment. "There's nothing we could have done," he said carefully. "It happened all too quickly. We couldn't possibly have arrived in time to help her. The police arrived in record time; it would have been humanly impossibly to have arrived sooner. Mycroft found her more quickly than any else possibly could have; but the car crashing set events into overdrive. It was all over in minutes."

Mrs. Hudson had stayed out of the room while they talked. Now she brought in the tea and set a platter of sandwiches on the coffee table. John and Sherlock ignored it. Thankfully, a knock at the door gave her another task, and she bustled to open it. Mycroft had arrived.

"John, my condolences on your loss," he said, sounding uncharacteristically affected. "Mary was an extraordinary young woman. Her loss will be greatly felt by all who knew her."

John had looked up when Mycroft came in. Now he nodded gratefully, unable to speak.

"Have some tea, dear," Mrs. Hudson offered, and Mycroft sat on the sofa and helped himself to tea and sandwiches.

"You may want to know that Mary's assailant did not make it to the hospital. The blood loss, I understand, was too great," he informed them.

"Good!" Sherlock said coldly. John closed his eyes and said nothing.

"I hope you will do me the honor of allowing me to help with the arrangements," Mycroft continued after sipping his tea.

John looked at him blankly. Mycroft's words were clearly incomprehensible to him. Sherlock frowned, torn between telling Mycroft to shut up, to not bring up such an uncomfortable topic; and honestly hoping his brother could spare his friend the difficulty of dealing with coroners and undertakers and clergy. An awkward silence stretched on. Mrs. Hudson came to the rescue, stepping behind John's chair and putting her hands on his shoulders tenderly.

"He means the funeral, dear," she told John gently, with an understanding borne of long experience. "They'll need to know what you want them to do, you know, at the . . . morgue."

John roused himself as if from a dream, scrubbing his face with his hands. "Oh. Of course. I . . . thank you, Mycroft, I could use a hand. I can't seem to think . . . . My family . . . we have a plot . . . ."

"Yes, I know," Mycroft interrupted smoothly, his voice unusually kind. "I can have her taken there and arrange for the date and time. I can also have a notice placed in the papers for you if you like. Please let me know what I can do to ease your way."

John nodded and went back to his contemplation of the ceiling. He seemed to have expended all the energy he had left; he was done.

"It's very kind of you, Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson said warmly, offering him more sandwiches.

"Mary was one of my favorite people," Mycroft replied, "for many reasons; not the least of which is that she genuinely _liked _my brother. She deserves all the consideration I can afford her."

They sat in respectful silence for some time. It was a wake without the body present, the four of them mourning together, unable to bear the thought of being alone, yet unable to articulate their thoughts. Mrs. Hudson made more tea, and John managed to get some of it down. Harry called, having seen the news, nearly incoherent, crying inconsolably; John was unable to respond at all. Sherlock finally took John's mobile from his frozen hand and sharply told Harry to call back when she was sober.

At some point during that long night, Mycroft slipped out and Mrs. Hudson fell asleep on the sofa. Sherlock alternated between watching over John and staring out the window, waiting for word from his homeless network. As the new day dawned, a messenger appeared on the street below. It was time.


	3. Chapter 3

The man they were looking for had been spotted in an underground parking garage twenty blocks from the scene of the crime. Sherlock led the way this time, skulking carefully along the wall, scanning the area with care.

"There," he murmured at last, indicating a dark mass on the floor behind a car. They split up and approached the killer from two sides. Their quarry exploded from his hiding place and through the space between them.

It was the kind of chase that would normally fill him with joy: complicated twists and turns, treacherous climbs, death-defying leaps across chasms between buildings. But this chase was not joyous. There would be no laughter in the end. Sherlock was driven with a force borne of fury. He was Nemesis bent on divine retribution. This man had done the unthinkable, and the killer would pay.

Two steps behind him, John ran with grim determination, allowing Sherlock to take the lead as the better navigator. He was fueled by rage; he was bent on revenge; he was armed and ready.

At last they had him. The killer made his last mistake. He dove into an alley, only to find it blocked at the far end by a locked gate. He hurled himself at the barrier, trying to scale it. With a ferocious battle-cry, John tackled him and dragged him back down. A powerful right to the jaw laid the man out flat on his back and then a foot on the throat subdued his frantic struggling. And then, quick as thought, John's weapon was in his hand. Removing his foot from the man's throat, he crouched by his side and pressed the muzzle of the handgun into the killer's temple. John was panting for breath, but his hand was perfectly steady. His other hand grabbed a handful of shirt collar and squeezed.

Sherlock felt he had never been so impressed by his friend's abilities. He wondered if John would really shoot his prey in cold blood. He had no desire to stop him, although it would mean prison for them both. He wondered whether he should try. At this moment, overcome with anger for their loss, he simply could not bring himself to care.

"You . . . bloody . . . bastard. . ." John rasped out between gasps. A stream of creative expletives followed, like infection lanced from a festering wound.

The man looked terrified, staring at John's enraged eyes. "Oi, mister, it were an accident! The gun just went off. Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!" he begged. Sherlock felt disgusted by this craven display. Then he noticed the man's foot twitch, preparing to execute a kick. He crouched and pressed both feet of John's captive to the ground with his hands.

Then Sherlock heard the distant sirens approaching. Lestrade's people had caught up with them. Of course, Mycroft would have been tracking them and would have alerted the proper authorities. Interfering git.

"John," he warned. "They're coming." If John were going to execute Mary's killer, now was the time to do it. Perhaps they could make it look like self-defense. And if that was what John wanted to do, Sherlock would help him and not lose a moment's sleep over it. He would leave the decision to John.

John was still breathing heavily, rasping. "You abducted my wife. You tried to rape her. You shot her in the head. And you call it an accident! And you ask me NOT TO HURT YOU?" In a mad fury, he flung his weapon aside and grabbed his captive by the throat with both hands, throttling him and slamming his head against the pavement in a paroxysm of rage. "You ask ME not to hurt YOU?"

Sherlock released the man's feet and straightened, watching John's fit of anger with a sort of voyeuristic satisfaction. For John to kill the killer with his bare hands seemed like justice. But then he felt that nudge; Mary's nudge. How would Mary feel, if she knew John was risking prison for perhaps the rest of his life? She would not approve, he felt certain. "Not good," she would say. "Very not good."

He put his hands on John's shoulders and forcefully pulled him back. "Not good, John," he said firmly. "Mary wouldn't want this. John, Mary would NOT want this." John struggled against his interference for just a moment, then gasped and fell back, defeated, his eyes dazed and unfocused. Sherlock helped him to his feet, and they backed away from Mary's killer, retrieving the handgun just as Lestrade, Donovan, and a dozen other officers sprinted down the alley towards them. Their captive desperately sucked in air, wheezing and coughing. He feebly managed to raise his upper body a bit and pushed with his feet, backing away from them, backing himself up against the barrier behind him.

"Help me! Help me! They're gonna kill me! Save me!" he gasped hoarsely.

Lestrade ignored him. To John he said, "Sure this is the one, mate?" John nodded briefly, and Lestrade instructed Donovan to take the man into custody.

"They attacked me for no reason! I didn't do anything!" the man protested weakly.

Lestrade looked him over coolly. "Shut that racket. If you fell and hit your head on the pavement running from a lawful pursuit, you've only your own clumsiness to blame. You are under arrest for the murder of Dr. Mary Watson, one of the finest, bravest, most selfless human beings I've even been privileged to know. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say will be taken down in evidence and used in a court of law. So I suggest you shut it," he said firmly, his jaw set.

He turned back to John and Sherlock. His face held nothing but compassion. If he realized what had nearly happened there, he was willing to turn a blind eye. "I'll need your statements. But it can wait until tomorrow. Go home, get cleaned up, get some rest. I'll have an officer drive you."

"Thanks," John said shortly. Sherlock just nodded, but his face showed his gratitude. They went home.

Sitting together before the fire, they were silent as the hours crept by. Finally John spoke. "It didn't bring her back, did it? Revenge. It didn't really help at all."

"No, it didn't," Sherlock said grimly.

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The sun was shining and the sky was the beautiful blue of Mary's eyes. A bird sweetly sang, its song a shocking intrusion into his dark thoughts. Sherlock stood well back, watching the knot of people crowding around John by the graveside, offering him their condolences. How John was hating this. And yet, it was good that so many people had loved Mary. Sherlock watched closely, ready to step in to the rescue the moment things seemed to get too overwhelming to his friend.

John was stoic and self-controlled and patient. His grief was etched deeply in the lines on his face and in the haunted expression in his eyes, but he did not give way to tears. He had done that last night, alone in his old room in Baker Street. Sherlock, downstairs, had listened to his friend's heart-wrenching outpour of grief most of the night, paralyzed with helplessness, knowing he must not interrupt or intervene. It was a private time for John, not meant for anyone else's ears. To the rest of the world, Mary's Captain presented himself to be "bloody but unbowed."

It had been a small funeral, quick and simple. Mycroft had done an admirable job of interpreting John's muddled instructions and had arranged things beautifully. The flowers were lovely; the service was brief but heartfelt; the notices in the papers were tastefully worded. It was a relief to have it over.

Furthermore, Mycroft was taking care of getting John out of his lease and moving his things out of his flat and back to Baker Street. It had been Mary's flat, before they had married. It was still very much Mary's flat. It felt like her. It smelled like her. It was impossible to be in it without hearing her voice. Her things were to be put into storage until John was able to sort them out himself. The only material possession of Mary's that John kept out of storage was her wedding ring, which Sherlock knew he kept in his pocket. In Sherlock's pocket was Mary's stiletto switch blade; his only concession to sentiment.

Lestrade stepped up to Sherlock's side. "My sympathies on your loss, mate," he offered in a heart-felt manner.

"John's loss, you mean," Sherlock intoned, trying to sound apathetic. No one else had offered him condolences. Mary was only his friend; she was John's wife. He did not merit attention.

"No, I offered my sympathies to John already. I'm talking to you, mate. You've lost a great friend. You were important to her, you know. She cared about you, she did. And I know you cared about her, too. Don't minimize your loss, Sherlock. Your loss is as great as his, in my way of thinking. Friends like Mary are hard to come by."

Sherlock felt warmed by these words. It was true, he had been putting his own sense of loss aside in deference to John's. Was it really all right for him to mourn, then? "Thank you," he murmured.

Lestrade smiled fondly. "You know, she told me once that you were the child she never had," he chuckled. Sherlock tried to look affronted by the sentiment, but failed. It was exactly the kind of thing Mary would say. It made him smile to think of it.

The mourners were thinning out at last, leaving the graveside, wandering back to their homes and their own, intact families and unshattered lives. Sherlock sighed and went to his friend. "Let's go, John," he said softly.

John nodded. His breath hitched in a sob. "How do we go on?" he whispered.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "But we must. She wouldn't accept anything less of us."

John nodded, and together they walked slowly back to the awaiting car.

000000000000000000000000000000000

Here is Mary's poem for John—she would change the pronouns when she read it to him, so that she was speaking to him about himself.

"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.


End file.
